


all roads lead to you

by medumyce, ZehWulf



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Museums, Mutual Pining, Pining, Road Trips, Vacation, [pines furiously], [tosses angel in the bentley]
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medumyce/pseuds/medumyce, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf
Summary: "We've never taken a trip like that, have we? Just the two of us together?” Aziraphale nudged.Or: an angel and a demon learn how to go the same speed.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55
Collections: GO-Events POV Pairs Works





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for the go pov pairs event, with me (medumyce) writing from aziraphale's perspective and zehwulf writing from crowley's.
> 
> thanks to onlysmallwings for the beta.
> 
> enjoy!

It didn’t make sense that Aziraphale was still jumpy. Things should have been better now, without Heaven and Hell looking over their shoulders—and as far as Aziraphale knew, they weren’t. He wasn’t being watched and there were no more reports to write. All he had to do now was… nothing. Live. Run a bookshop, ostensibly. He didn’t know. 

Aziraphale expected to be alone for a few months while Crowley slept the whole thing off, but to his unending surprise, Crowley kept showing at the bookshop, three or four times a week, with takeout or lunch plans. He seemed nervous, but it was Crowley, of course. Aziraphale assumed it was Armageddon-related, but he could never tell.

Like all the days had been, after the Apocalypse that hadn’t, it was sunny. Perfect for a walk in St. James, as Crowley suggested. It was sunny, like the first day had been, and Crowley had brought along a bag of frozen peas to feed the ducks. It reminded Aziraphale of Eden in a lot of ways—Crowley and him, marveling at Things Being There. Things were there. They had helped, sort of, and in the end, there was still a park to take strolls in and ducks to feed. 

Aziraphale swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “Peas?” he asked.

“Yeah. Bread isn’t good for them, you know,” Crowley explained, smiling at him. (He did that more often nowadays.) “Don’t want to go around killing the ducks.”

“Right.”

For everything that had been saved, it still felt like there were loose ends to tie up. Like there was more that should have happened, and didn’t. But what Aziraphale considered to be the natural progression of his relationship with Crowley was probably ridiculous, and he knew it. That they were friends in the first place was unheard of. Even the Arrangement was mutually beneficial—neither one sacrificed anything without being paid back by the other. It would ask too much of Crowley, expecting him to return Aziraphale’s love. They were too fundamentally different.

Aziraphale let Crowley ramble for a while, about ducks and peas and restaurants; Anathema Device, her young man, and the Antichrist. And the actual Christ, poor fellow. They walked slowly and tossed peas at the ducks as Crowley talked, but Aziraphale’s mind was elsewhere. Crowley didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, but didn’t mention it for Aziraphale’s sake. But he enjoyed listening to Crowley talk; he seemed so animated now, in a way that he had rarely been Before. 

He wished life were a movie. Now would be the part where he would drift closer to Crowley as they walked and take his hand. They wouldn’t need to talk about it. Everything would be so easy. They’d been through enough, Aziraphale thought, frustrated and irrational; he deserved something easy.

“Need something, angel?” Crowley said quietly, reminding Aziraphale where they were.

“Hmm?”

“Er, you were just… staring. Never mind.” 

“I was?” Aziraphale hoped he didn’t look too embarrassed.

“Yeah, at… never mind, it doesn’t have to be a thing.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale said. He let out a small sigh; everything about this was ridiculous. He was being stupid, he knew. If there was a first move to make, it was for him to make. But Aziraphale was still afraid of looking It in the eye, even after all this time. 

It was only the irrational fear of rejection—“I never meant it like that, angel”—that paralyzed him. Rejection would certainly mean the end of their friendship. If not because of Crowley, then because of Aziraphale. He wouldn’t be able to face him. He’d be lucky if, in another six thousand years, the shame had shrivelled up and died and not taken him with it. 

And not even rejection because Crowley felt nothing for him; that was the worst part. He was almost certain Crowley loved him. But love wasn’t consent; love was sometimes irrational, and it was up to the better judgement of the person to decide exactly how much they wanted from the one they loved. Aziraphale, in short, was terrified of pushing Crowley too far, asking too much of him, and scaring him away.

“I’ve got to get back to the shop,” he said instead, afraid that if he didn’t leave now, The Thing would slip out. 

Crowley frowned. “Why? It’s only two.”

“I _know;_ I’ve got things to do.”

“Things. What things?” Crowley stopped suddenly, the unnecessary blood draining out of his already-pale face. “You got a new assignment, didn’t you. Heaven gave you a new assignment and you didn’t tell me.”

“No, no! It’s nothing like that—you know I would tell you if that ever happened,” Aziraphale huffed. 

“Do I?”

“Wh—.” Aziraphale suddenly felt very small. “Well, I should hope so. Our side and all that.”

“Urgh, you’re right.” Crowley scrubbed at his eyes underneath the glasses, apparently chastened by those two magic words. “Yeah. Of course. Our side.”

“Why did you think it was Heaven? Did you get an assignment from Hell?”

“What? No!” Crowley cried. “Why would I—?”

Aziraphale couldn’t look at him. They were being ridiculous—fighting in the middle of the park like a married couple. “I don’t know,” he said, purposefully lowering his voice. “You seemed very intent on me having received word from Heaven.”

“You were the one who wanted to leave all of a sudden,” Crowley shot back.

“Yes, well, you obviously haven’t considered that perhaps I have a life outside of you,” Aziraphale said. He regretted it instantly, watching Crowley’s face fall, then go completely neutral. Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes; somehow that was the worst thing.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “‘Course. ‘M sorry, angel. Stupid of me.”

“No—Crowley, come now,” Aziraphale pleaded. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I only—”

“Look at us fighting,” Crowley said. He refused to look Aziraphale’s way, even with the glasses. He sniffed. It sounded miserable. “Probably best that I get back to my flat.”

He was gone in an instant. He didn’t even bother walking away. No one noticed except Aziraphale.

* * *

After all that, they didn’t talk about it. They were good at that; six thousand years of not talking about it was plenty of practice. Aziraphale, as always, was terribly conflicted. He wanted to talk about it just as much as he wanted to leave it alone and never, ever think of it. Preferably put it in a locked box and let literary detritus bury it over the course of another six millennia. But he wanted to talk about it, but he didn’t, because then he would have to face all the ugly parts of himself and Crowley.

Crowley gave him a few days and then showed up at the bookshop again, paper bag in one hand and overcomplicated iced coffee concoction in the other. “Scones, angel,” he said, shaking the bag like it was a packet of dog treats, and smiled at Aziraphale the way he always had. That, above everything else, was troubling. It suggested a history of unpleasantness that Aziraphale didn’t want to deal with.

So he didn’t. He enthusiastically shooed out the remaining customers and let Crowley lead him to the back room.

“How’re sales this quarter?” Crowley asked sarcastically, plopping himself down on the ratty sofa. “Did you get rid of any of the first edition Wildes?”

“Crowley, those are worth far too much to part with,” Aziraphale replied primly, sitting down in his own armchair across from him. 

“Pfft. You know the guy was a pedophile, right? And a _raging_ antisemite?”

Aziraphale crossed his arms and gave him a look that was probably meant to be derisive, but seemed more fond than anything. “Of course I do. I’m not saying I condone that; I’m simply... preserving history.”

“Yeah, alright, preserve whatever you like. All I’m saying is, Wilde’s a wanker. Can we at least agree on that?”

“Of course we can, dear boy. I have morals. Remind me, did you ever meet him?”

“Nah.” Crowley loudly slurped his coffee. “Avoided him like the plague. Number one Wilde hater, me.”

“Yes, me too, but... But you liked Byron, is that so?” Aziraphale raised one eyebrow and reached for the bag. 

“I didn't like him either!”

“I thought you read all of his poetry.”

“I don't read, and it's not about the poetry, Aziraphale, _Somebody._ But, whatever. Wasn't one of his kids the first computer programmer or something?” Crowley continued as Aziraphale took a bite of his cinnamon scone. “Ada, I think, what a nice girl. Shelley, though? Percy? Huge bitch, in my humblest of opinions.”

“Mary was a genius, though,” Aziraphale said, a bit nostalgic and a bit in awe.

Crowley raised his Starbucks in agreement. 

“You ever really hang out with that lot?” he asked.

“I fraternized with them on occasion, yes,” Aziraphale replied, not realizing the poor choice of words. He looked up from the pastry in his hands to see that Crowley’s face was carefully… not anything, really. Perfectly neutral.

“I see,” Crowley said.

Not again.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, my dear,” Aziraphale quickly amended. “I only… I was acquainted with them; perhaps that’s a better word. You must know that… well, you are the only person I really ‘hang out’ with. Even if I despise the phrase.”

That got a bit of a smile out of Crowley. “Yeah. ‘Course. Wait. Really?”

“What do you mean, really?”

“The other day you said—”

“The other day I was being stupid. The truth is—.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “You’re my friend, Crowley. My best friend. I’ve had quite a few friends over the years and none of them ever measured up to you; not by far.” 

“How could they?” Crowley said gently. His smile widened into mischief territory. “It’s true; I could drink Will under the table any day of the week.”

Aziraphale had always thought it was Heaven’s fault, the wall that was erected between himself and Crowley, but it wasn’t. Briefly he thought that perhaps he was only trying to spare their friendship: it was surely doomed if Crowley didn’t return—or didn’t want to return—Aziraphale’s affections. He could never truly let his guard down when there was his oldest and most precious relationship at stake.

But that wasn’t right, either. Crowley liked him well enough to justify coming around, even if Aziraphale embarrassed both of them into separation for a while with unwanted romantic overtures. After a few thousand years, he reasoned, it would be nice to see a familiar face again. By that time, Crowley may have even forgotten.

* * *

The bell chiming above the door was the only warning Aziraphale got before Crowley slammed into the bookshop the following Saturday like a hurricane on Adderall. 

“Road trip!” Crowley shouted, making three customers jump, then hurry straight out of the shop. “That’s what we need.”

“Crowley, you can't be serious.” 

Crowley seemed no less excited. “How did I know you were going to say that? Come on, angel, it can be anywhere. Anywhere you want to go.”

“Absolutely not.” 

“But why?”

“Because that’s—.” Aziraphale struggled for an appropriate comparison. “That’s something _Americans_ do.”

“So what? Americans read books, too.” 

Aziraphale resisted rolling his eyes, but it was a near thing. “You are ridiculous. Has London gotten boring already? You’ve never talked about wanting to go on a road trip before.”

“Yeah, well, new world, new demon, right?” Crowley needled. “And, er, angel. It’s only… I’m worried about you. You seem… nervous.”

“Ha!” Aziraphale said mirthlessly. “ _I_ seem nervous?”

“Whatever; then I’m worried about both of us. Which is why we need a road trip. You know, take the edge off. Blow off steam and whatnot. I would’ve gone anyway. You can’t drive.”

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale huffed, “I’m sure I could have figured it out.”

“Well, alright. I suppose I’ll let you drive to Paris on your own, then.”

“Paris?” asked the angel, sufficiently tempted at that moment.

“Yeah,” the demon replied coolly. “I was gonna go for crepes or something; guess I’ll do it alone.”

Perhaps Crowley was onto something. “No, no, I’ll go with you,” Aziraphale said quickly. “To… make sure all of your wiles are sufficiently thwarted.”

Crowley lowered his glasses. “You know you don’t have to do that anymore, right?” _You can just be around me,_ remained unsaid, but Aziraphale heard it. It was like a switch flipping, like lighting up all the dark corners of an attic that one hasn't crawled into in a decade. It was definitely an invitation. It might have even been a declaration.

Aziraphale knew Crowley well, and he knew that, despite the irony, despite the ridiculous amounts of subterfuge involved in all of this, saying yes and turning the conversation into something serious would be going far too fast for him. The poor man was never good at taking affection, platonic or otherwise. But that was alright. He was entirely worth it, Aziraphale knew, and he would accommodate him at whatever speed was most comfortable for Crowley.

So the only reason a barrier still stood between the angel and his demon was the inability of both to say or do anything directly, and Aziraphale, for once, had an answer to that.

He would go slow; glaciers would outrun him. He didn’t want to drive Crowley away or make him feel rushed. But Crowley evidently didn't want excuses and plausible deniability anymore.

“We’ve never taken a trip like that, have we? Just the two of us together?” Aziraphale nudged. He didn’t need to tack the last part on, but he thought it would drive the point home more effectively.

It did. Crowley choked on air, and Aziraphale smiled like a bastard in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: okay. so.  
> anon, thanks for pointing out the thing about byron. it was totally hypocritical of me to trash wilde then act like byron was okay in the next line. to be honest, i didn’t do my research, and i should’ve. so, sorry for that, but it’s been fixed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Road trip time!
> 
> Thanks to [cumaeansibyl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumaeansibyl/pseuds/cumaeansibyl) for the beta!

The moment Aziraphale agreed to the trip, Crowley grinned and made for the door.

"Crowley? Where are you going?" Aziraphale called, sounding bewildered and a little hurt. "I thought we agreed we were going on a trip together."

The little divot that formed between the angel's eyebrows when he was worried reeled Crowley back into his immediate orbit like a lodestone. He fought to keep a semi-respectable distance as he made a half circuit, putting Aziraphale between himself and the door in case he needed to actually, physically chivvy him out of the bookshop.

"Yeah, we did," he agreed, letting his own confusion bleed clear into his own voice. "So, let's go."

"What, now?" Aziraphale demanded, like Crowley had asked him to walk outside in his skivvies.

"Sure. Why not? Paris calls. Or the crepes do, maybe," he said, very very casually, lifting his eyebrows.

Aziraphale huffed. "Crowley, I need to pack!"

"Pack _what_?"

But the angel was already looking into the middle distance and bustling toward the back of the shop. Crowley drifted slowly in his wake.

"What does anyone pack for a road trip, my dear boy?" Aziraphale called back, voice becoming muffled as he opened a storage closet and leaned in to rummage.

Crowley shrugged, either to himself or the books, he wasn't sure. Aziraphale certainly wasn't paying attention. Sounds of heavy things being shoved around filtered back to where Crowley had halted by the little hob where Aziraphale prepared his tea.

"I dunno. Clothes? Except you only change yours once a century." He racked his brain. He watched plenty of television; surely he could come up with something else. "Snacks? I'd make a mixtape, but you know how well those last in the Bentley."

"A what?" Aziraphale said, backing out of the closet dragging an honest to goodness steamer trunk.

"No," Crowley said vehemently.

Aziraphale threw him a semi-abashed look over his shoulder. "Too much? I thought it might be in the spirit of the thing."

"If we were downtrodden and seeking our fortunes in the New World, maybe," Crowley snarked back. "Don't you have a, whatsit, fancy travel bag thingy," he said, wagging a finger toward the bookshelves. "What you carried your books in that time I rescued you from a bunch of paperwork."

Aziraphale's face softened at the reminder. "Yes, I remember." He hesitated for a moment before saying, "Did you know, that was the first time I…" he trailed off with a fidget of his hands and a faint flush to his cheeks as his eyes dropped from Crowley to contemplate the state of his manicure.

Crowley held very still. Was this it? He'd felt it, in the past few months, building up between them, that unspoken but crucial thing he was more or less certain had to be between them. The one they'd gotten so good at not acknowledging over the millennia that, now that it might be safe to do so, he wasn't sure either of them knew how to, or if it was even the shape Crowley desperately hoped it was.

Whatever it was, Crowley was trying to leave it to Aziraphale to bring up, let him set the pace. But, that didn't mean he wasn't doing his damndest to set the mood. Lingering lunches, walks in the park, nightcaps at the bookshop. The problem, he'd determined, was that they were both too damn jumpy these days. Ghosts of thwarted apocalypses and attempted assassinations cast a pall over all their usual haunts. A change of scene, he hoped, might unruffle their feathers enough to do the trick.

Admittedly, proposing a trip to Paris was perhaps a bit on the nose as far as setups for (hopefully) romantic confessions went, but he was getting a bit desperate.

"The first time you…?" he prompted quietly.

Aziraphale glanced over at him and swallowed visibly before pasting on a smile. "Never mind. I should be packing. So we can slap the road, as they say."

"No one says that. I swear, you do that on purpose," Crowley griped.

Aziraphale gave him a look like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth and turned back to the closet.

* * *

Packing went on long enough that they ordered takeaway, then opened a bottle of wine, and quite before he knew it, Crowley was blinking awake on the bookshop sofa with a crick in his neck, and Aziraphale beaming down at him, obnoxiously alert and unruffled.

"Up, up, up, Crowley! No time to tarry. Paris awaits!" he exclaimed, clutching the handle of a valise in both hands.

"Is that a cravat?" Crowley mumbled as he scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to orient his sleep-fogged brain. Bloody typical of Aziraphale to drag his feet until Crowley decided to get a kip in.

Aziraphale touched a hand to the open collar of his shirt, looking a touch self-conscious. "Just getting into the spirit of things."

Crowley hummed, feeling a jolt of electricity arc through him as he finally placed when he'd last seen the angel wear that particular cravat in that particular fashion. Was it a signal? If so, a signal in which direction?

He channeled his uncertainty into making inhumanly good time in morning London traffic down to the Chunnel train. Aziraphale, in turn, channeled his obvious panic at Crowley's driving into giving a detailed list of the contents of his travel bag.

"So, snacks and books," Crowley concluded once they'd miraculously found a slot left in the queue despite not having booked tickets in advance.

Aziraphale gave him a perfectly bitchy look and settled more comfortably into his seat now that they weren't moving. "I don't have to share," he pointed out, opening a tin of shortbread.

Crowley glared at it, just daring the contents to even think about getting crumbs on his upholstery. Finally, though, he sighed and held out a hand. Aziraphale daintily placed a biscuit in the shape of a Scottie dog in his hand. Of course he got the ones in the "cute" shapes, the soft bastard. Crowley looked him in the eye when he snapped the head off with too-pointed teeth, but Aziraphale just regarded him placidly.

"Did you remember your travel kit?" the angel asked a minute later.

"My what?" Crowley asked, holding his hand out for the thermos of tea. Aziraphale handed it over, and Crowley tried not to let the brief brush of their fingers over each other sear him down to the bone.

"Your travel kit! You're meant to have all sorts of road safety... things when you drive in Europe. Something about triangles, I'm not sure," he said, clearly losing steam.

Crowley stared at him. "You don't know how to drive, but you keep up on road safety measures in countries you don't even live in?"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "It's the law, Crowley. There were signs all over when we bought the tickets and were queuing to board."

"Do you imagine anyone is going to pull us over if I don't want it?" Crowley countered, leaning back against the door and propping his elbow up on the steering wheel to better project his incredulous fascination with where the conversation had turned. It was difficult to get a good sprawl going in the confines of the Bentley, especially when you were keenly aware of every atom in the distance between you and your traveling companion, but Crowley was bound and determined to do his best-worst.

Aziraphale grinned, then, and turned toward him in kind, biscuit tin still clutched to his chest. "Oh, I was thinking about that, actually. What if we did a no miracle rule while we're traveling? Do the trip proper, the human way?"

"Subject ourselves to all the little inconveniences of travel that humans cope with while still grimly trying to have a good time, you mean?" Crowley asked politely.

"Oh, you're no fun," Aziraphale scoffed.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "I'd argue I'm the one between us trying to _preserve_ the fun, right about now. But, fine, if you want, no big miracles," he said easily.

Aziraphale squinted at him. "No _miracles_ ," he clarified.

Crowley made a vaguely assenting sound and began rummaging around in the glove box for something to put on that wasn't already corrupted by Queen. Like Heaven was he going to agree to a full moratorium, but he'd at least work to keep his miracles more discreet if Aziraphale wanted. He didn't imagine the ban would last longer than a situation when something personally inconvenienced Aziraphale, but the angel did like to live in hope, so…

Twenty minutes later, music abandoned, biscuit tin empty, and with nothing but the grim industrial interior of the tunnel for distraction, Aziraphale let out an aggrieved sigh.

"How much longer?"

"Eh… dunno. Not too long. S'only supposed to be about forty minutes, but maybe there's a bit of traffic at the other end."

"And why didn't we take the ferry?"

"Tunnel's faster," Crowley said firmly even though he was internally kicking himself. A lot easier to discreetly miracle faster currents than unclog a traffic jam. But by Someone did he hate seagulls, and the feeling was unfortunately very much mutual.

Aziraphale shifted, then shifted again.

"I suppose it would be a shame if we arrived too late in the day for the best creperies to be open," he mused airily.

"Hmm," Crowley agreed, idly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

"And it can't be good for our corporations to be stuck in such a confined space with all these fumes for so long. Or any of the humans either," he said, tone catching the tail end of inspiration.

Crowley bit down a smirk. "Oh, yeah, would probably be doing them a favor if we helped them get out of here a bit sooner than expected. Get back into the fresh air."

"I may not be on the books any longer, but I do intend to keep spreading goodwill and blessings where I'm able."

"Hmm, yeah, and getting the train out early would probably wreak havoc on their timetables," Crowley said, going so far as to thoughtfully stroke his chin.

"Oh, go on, then," Aziraphale said, wriggling in his seat.

"Whatever you want, angel," Crowley agreed easily, and then ordered his corporation not to blush. Well, that was certainly about three times more earnest than he'd intended. Excellent job keeping things at a reasonable speed, he congratulated himself darkly.

He thought he felt a hesitant brush of fingers to the side of his knee, but he was too focused on reining himself back in and getting them out of the tunnel faster to look down. Probably his imagination.

* * *

They stopped in Calais before heading further into the country, because Aziraphale wouldn't hear of stepping, however metaphorically, further onto French soil without obtaining a nice brioche and some local cheeses, jams, and stuffed olives. The motorway to Paris stretched out in front of them, the sides alternately curving up and flattening to reveal seemingly endless rolling fields of this or that crop. Crowley took advantage of the relative sameness and Aziraphale's distraction to discreetly compress an almost three-and-a-half hour drive down to a jiffy sixty minutes.

They were just about to the city, when Crowley knew he'd have to start pretending to care about speed limits and other motorway users again, when Aziraphale let out a particularly indecent moan and pivoted toward him.

"Crowley, you simply must try this," he insisted, holding out a hand in the periphery of Crowley's vision.

"What?" Crowley glanced over and away, more concerned with zipping around a trundling lorry than whatever morsel Aziraphale was trying to foist on him.

"This cheese is simply divine, my dear. And with a little bit of the apple jelly!" He shuffled in his seat, and suddenly his near arm was pressing gently against Crowley's own. "Oh, here, just turn your head a bit and open your mouth."

What.

"What," Crowley echoed flatly, darting another look to confirm that, yes, Aziraphale was holding up a bite of the brioche with a sliver of cheese and smear of jam on top for him to take.

"Eyes on the road, please, dear," Aziraphale admonished, sounding nervous, though whether over Crowley's driving or the gesture Crowley couldn't tell. "I'd like for you to try it. Please."

Well, that wasn't playing fair at all. But Crowley couldn't help the sudden tension in him. They didn't do this. Aziraphale ate, and Crowley watched. Or, occasionally, was goaded into spearing a bite of something or other from the angel's plate or holding out his hand for Aziraphale to drop something into it.

He swallowed with a dry click in his throat and flicked another glance Aziraphale's way.

The angel's face was a study in wild-eyed determination, mouth pressed in a neat line and the faintest of furrows to his brow. When he caught Crowley looking, however, he tried for a small smile.

Crowley catalogued the line of heat all along his arm, the soft folds of the cravat nestled inside the open-necked shirt, and the intimacy of the offer to feed him. It added up to a likely sum that was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

"Yeah, all right," he conceded with an unavoidable rasp to his tone.

Dutifully, he opened his mouth and angled his chin toward the angel. He had to keep his eyes on the road, though. He already felt his face flaming in incalculable mortification; he thought he might discorporate if he were forced to look at Aziraphale directly.

There was the briefest, lightest brush of warmth against his lower lip as Aziraphale's thumb grazed against it with the passing of the bread. Crowley took the bite as carefully as he'd ever seen the angel take his first taste of a new, highly anticipated dish. He didn't think he'd be able to tell Satan himself what the food tasted like, but he'd be able to recount just about every other detail of the moment when the universe finally spluttered out.

"How is it?" Aziraphale asked, in the tone he used when he was absolutely talking about something else but didn't want you to be so gauche as to call him out on it.

"S'fine," Crowley choked out around the tasteless mouthful.

"Oh, um. Would you like more?"

He swallowed and took a semi-shuddering breath. "No—nope!" he insisted, sure he would wrap his poor Bentley around the nearest motorway sign if he had to endure that again. "Need to… need to focus," he added, belatedly trying to soften the refusal. "We're almost there."

"Of course," Aziraphale said, quietly, and shifted back to his side of the car, taking all that wonderful warmth with him.

Crowley held back a slightly hysterical laugh. Six thousand years he'd been spinning on this rock, and for nearly the entirety of it he'd been desiring with increasingly soppy fervor for his bastard of an angel to do something exactly like this. And now that the moment had finally come, Crowley realized it might be a little too fast for _him_.

Well, shit.

* * *

No, Crowley decided, later, when they'd settled at a small table just in front of the Coffee Crepes, he wasn't going to stand for it. He wasn't going to let himself get in the way of, well, himself. Clearly his brainwave to get them both out of London had been inspired, if this was how Aziraphale was responding: literally loosening up, enjoying the things he loved with something much closer to his usual sensual abandon.

And if part of that response was feeling brave enough to push the boundaries of whatever it was they had between them, then Crowley was ready to literally bend over backward to accommodate him. Because he did want this whatever-it-was to blossom, now that there was the room and time to do so.

So, he was just going to have to square up and not nearly lose his mind the next time Aziraphale made some sort of overture.

Unless he'd already buggered it with his lackluster response to the bit in the car.

Honestly, what was _wrong_ with him?

"What will you get?" Aziraphale asked, pulling Crowley from his inner spiral. He was perusing the menu with a fervent gleam in his eye. "Apart from your coffee, of course. Are you feeling savory or sweet?" He waggled his eyebrows over the top of the menu in Crowley's direction as he put an extra bit of frisson on the final T.

Crowley just barely pulled off his performative scowl, too relieved that Aziraphale didn't seem put off by Crowley's idiocy in the car that a good crepe menu couldn't smooth things over. Still, a bit of snark might not hurt, just to get them firmly back on familiar ground. "I am never 'feeling sweet,'" he drawled, sprawling back even further in his chair.

"Of course not, how silly of me," Aziraphale agreed indulgently, immediately distracted by the menu again. "Oh! They make their own caramel!"

Crowley ordered both a savory and a sweet crepe, but only because they were both the close second choices of the ones Aziraphale got. He had enough bites to keep up the illusion, but within minutes was contentedly sitting forward at the table, chin propped up in hand, unabashedly watching Aziraphale enjoy himself.

"Oh, I could eat crepes for a week straight and not tire of them," Azirapahle declared as he polished off the final bite of his ham, egg, and cheese crepe.

"I think you have done. Back in the seventies," Crowley said.

Aziraphale paused, gaze unfocusing a bit. "Which century?"

Crowley opened his mouth and then shut it again around a jumble of vowels as ambiguous as his memory. To distract from it, he decided to pose a thought that had been percolating in the back of his mind as he sipped his coffee. "We could, though. If you wanted. Stay and eat crepes all week."

Aziraphale stared at him. "Oh, well. I suppose we could." His expression slackened in dawning realisation. "No assignments."

"No assignments," Crowley agreed. "Louvre's just up the street. We could have a bit of a wander. Come back out when it's time for crepes again. Go back in—can't do the Louvre in just an afternoon—come back out, crepes."

"There is more to Paris, or to France for that matter, than the Louvre," Aziraphale said, but his tone missed reproving by quite a bit. He wiggled in his seat, a beaming smile beginning to overtake his features. "I do like a good museum," he said brightly.

Crowley felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. Yes, he did.

Basking in the feeling of a job well done pleasing his angel, and feeling emboldened by the enthusiasm Aziraphale seemed to have for spending more time together, Crowley decided to do something to rectify his earlier blunder.

Using the edge of his fork, he sectioned off a bite of his crepe and held it out across the table.

"Here, try some of mine," he offered, trying so hard for cool that he overshot and ended up sounding a bit bored.

Aziraphale regarded the offering, dripping caramel and whipped cream, with something akin to cautious awe. Then, he straightened up in his seat with a determined wriggle and leaned forward with only a little hesitation.

Crowley focused every ounce of self-control into safely shepherding the fork to the angel's mouth without flinging the crepe somewhere, stabbing Aziraphale in the mouth, or otherwise making a complete tit of himself. Aziraphale took the bite neatly between his lips, but mercifully kept his eyes fixed on Crowley's hand instead of doing something devastating like making eye contact. Crowley was pretty sure he shouldn't have felt as grateful for the reprieve as he did, but it was what it was.

"Good?" he croaked.

Aziraphale closed his eyes on a sigh as he chewed. When he opened them again, there was a suspicious sheen to them, but he was smiling, tentatively. "Wonderful."

"Hnngh," Crowley acknowledged and hid his flaming face behind his coffee cup, which knew better than to remain empty when he so desperately needed a functional prop.

Aziraphale watched him for a moment before his shoulders relaxed.

"Well," he said, "shall we discuss an itinerary for the Louvre?" Shamelessly, he reached across to cut himself another bite of Crowley's crepe.


End file.
